Kickout Clause (Savannah Martin Mystery)

by Bennett, Jenna

  She nodded. “Any idea who was here?”

  “None, I’m afraid. If you hadn’t had Walker in custody, I would have blamed it on him.”

  He had admitted to tearing up my office, after all. But he couldn’t have been here this evening. Nor could Garth Hanson.

  “Need you to do something for me,” Rafe told Grimaldi.

  She sighed, but nodded. “I know. Check with Lamont and Hanson whether they broke into the house on Potsdam Street two nights ago. And whether they slashed the tires on the car last night.”

  “And whether either of them tried to get in here yesterday afternoon,” I added. “Someone did. Remember I told you?”

  Both of them nodded.

  “Better do it now,” Rafe said, “before they’re moved out of the jail downtown.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” But she didn’t leave right away, just looked around, at the mess and the crime scene tech who had started fingerprinting the front door knob. By now we were old friends, the tech and I. He was probably heartily sick of me.

  Grimaldi glanced at us. “You two staying here overnight?”

  Rafe shook his head. “We’re going to my grandma’s house on Potsdam for the night. We’ll deal with the mess tomorrow. It’s the weekend, anyway.”

  It was. In all the hoopla, I’d forgotten that today was Friday.

  “I’ll call with what I find out,” Grimaldi said. “You two can head out if you’re ready. I’ll stay with Zach until he’s done with the door and can go inside and lock it. Don’t wanna take any chances.”

  No, indeed. There’d been entirely too much activity in this apartment for that.

  “C’mon, darlin’.” Rafe took the overnight bag in one hand and me in the other. “Let’s go.”

  We went.

  It’s amazing how quickly something can turn. It was just thirty minutes since we’d crossed the courtyard coming home, and I’d thought about how safe I felt, knowing that Walker and Garth Hanson were back in jail. Now I was back to being jumpy again, feeling like eyes were tracking my progress across the sidewalk. I halfway expected a rifle to spit fire. I imagine Rafe expected the same, because he was back to protective mode: keeping me close and trying to shield me with his body. Not an easy thing to do when the hypothetical shot could come from practically any angle.

  And anyway, it didn’t come. We made it safely across the courtyard to the sidewalk, where Rafe stopped. “Car or bike?”

  “Oh.” It hadn’t even crossed my mind that we could take the bike. We always took the Volvo when we went somewhere together. But now that I’d ridden on the Harley a few times, it was a definite possibility. Especially dressed as I was, in jeans and halfway sensible shoes. “Um... bike?”

  His grin turned wicked. “Really liked those vibrations, didn’t you?”

  I had. But I’d also liked the wind in my hair and the way I could plaster myself against his back and the sense of freedom that came from streaking up the interstate with no walls between me and the elements.

  But... “We’ve got the bag. It would probably be easier to take the car.”

  “Live a little,” Rafe said and headed for the bike.

  Fine. I crawled on behind him, slung the bag over my shoulder, and held on. Now that he wasn’t trying to shock me by taking off like a bat out of hell, we started out down the road at a more sedate pace, and he didn’t open the throttle until we hit Ellington Parkway. After that it was just a few minutes before we had to slow down again to exit. Nonetheless, I enjoyed every second of the ride, even the moment when Rafe dropped a hand from the handlebar to squeeze my knee affectionately. I might have gotten a little short of breath—as much because of the squeeze as because he was only driving with one hand—but that was all.

  The Potsdam area was quiet when we arrived. Porch lights were on up and down the street, and there was the blue glow of television screens from behind closed curtains. Mrs. J’s house loomed dark and still. The gravel crunched loudly under the bike tires as we made our way up to the porch.

  “Guess I forgot to turn the porch light on when we left this afternoon,” I told Rafe when I’d climbed off the back of the bike and taken the helmet off my head.

  He nodded. “We were a little distracted, as I recall. I’m gonna park round the corner. No sense in leaving the bike at the bottom of the stairs like a beacon.”

  No sense at all. It was an expensive piece of equipment, quite a bit more valuable than my six year old car, and easy to hotwire, I imagined, since whoever wanted to steal it, wouldn’t even have to worry about getting inside first. Not to be crude or anything, but just like on a man, everything was on the outside.

  I watched while he tucked the bike out of sight beside the porch, where the light wouldn’t reflect off the chrome once I turned the porch light on. Then he came back and took the overnight bag out of my hand and threw it over his shoulder. “C’mon, darlin’. Let’s do this.”

  I took his hand and headed up the stairs.

  He made a circuit of the house as soon as we walked in, just to make sure everything was still as it should be. There was no sign that anyone had been inside since we left just before one. All the windows were intact and all the doors were locked, just as they should be. Everything looked normal.

  The house was still furnished the way it had been when Mrs. J lived there with her companion-cum-nurse Marquita Johnson in the fall. Rafe had nowhere else to store the furniture he’d bought for the house, so we’d left it where it was, and figured we’d just deal with it when the house sold. As a result, all three upstairs bedrooms were furnished, as were the kitchen—obviously—the dining room, parlor and library.

  We ended up in the parlor in front of the TV, where Rafe let me have my pick of viewing material, probably because he realized how rattled I was and figured I’d calm down more if he let me look at soothing things. We watched a couple of hours of mindless, calming House Hunters episodes, with people looking to buy houses in such wildly disparate but idyllic locations as St. Paul, Minnesota, and St. Johns, in the Virgin Islands. Rafe kept his arm around me, and stroked my arm.

  Then we switched to the news, which included the usual mixture of death and destruction. They did mention, briefly, that the escaped prisoner Walker Lamont, responsible for several murders, had been caught and was on his way back to prison. I guess they were trying to reassure the population at large that it was safe to go to sleep tonight.

  Rafe’s phone rang about halfway through the news. For a second I wondered whether he was on call, that he’d have to leave me to go in to work, but then I relaxed again when he answered. “Tammy.”

  Grimaldi said something, and Rafe smirked. “I know.”

  I sat up straighter in the squishy sofa.

  “What’ve you got?”

  She spoke for a while after that, with Rafe just nodding and making go-ahead noises. Eventually he thanked her and disconnected. “That was Tammy. Lamont and Hanson deny breaking the windows. They also deny slashing the car tires.”

  I had begun to suspect as much, since they couldn’t have broken into my apartment earlier this evening. It didn’t come as a complete shock, but the news still left me feeling a bit uneasy. “Do you think they’re telling the truth?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. They might think they’ve got enough charges filed against them anyway, that they don’t wanna add more.”

  Maybe. That made sense, and made for a reasonable explanation for why they wouldn’t own up to vandalism on top of everything else.

  “Then again, with what they’ve already got to deal with, ain’t like this is gonna make much difference.”

  Right.

  “Who do you think did those things, then?”

  “No idea. The tires coulda been anyone. There were plenty of people at the Shortstop that night. Coulda been someone who didn’t like the questions we asked. Or somebody who recognized me from before. Just cause I didn’t see nobody I knew, doesn’t mean they couldn’t have seen me.”

  Obviousl
y.

  He continued, “Or it coulda been someone we didn’t know, but who thought the likes of you woulda been better off without the likes of me.”

  “I’m not better off without you,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. “As for who broke in here, I did some research after I dropped you off.”

  “Research?”

  “I was gonna tell you,” Rafe said, “but then I got sidetracked.”

  That was quite the understatement, considering that what had sidetracked him—sidetracked us both—had been me getting abducted and almost killed.

  “Go ahead.” I braced myself.

  “After I took you to the office, I came back here and did a canvass. Knocked on doors and asked if anyone had heard or seen anything.”

  “I thought you went to see Nathan Ferncliff.”

  “That was later,” Rafe said. “First I talked to the neighbors.”

  Better him than me. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable walking door to door in this neighborhood. “Did you learn anything?”

  “This ain’t the kinda place where it pays to be interested in anybody else’s business, darlin’. That’s more likely to get a body in trouble. But I did find someone who’d seen a car parked out front. A dark SUV. Maybe blue, maybe black. Maybe dark green.”

  Not like there’s any lack of those around Nashville. Especially when we didn’t have a make or model.

  “I don’t suppose this person happened to see who was driving the car?”

  He shook his head. “Who d’you know who drives a dark SUV?”

  I thought about it. It was easier to tell him who didn’t. “Not Tim. Nor Heidi. Nor Brittany.”

  He quirked a brow. “You have a reason to think your coworkers would wanna break windows or slash tires?”

  None at all, I had to admit. “None of the people who were here earlier. The inspector had a white truck. The agent had a Jeep Wrangler and the clients a sports car.”

  He nodded.

  “But Todd drives a blue SUV.”

  “I know he don’t like me,” Rafe said, “but somehow I don’t think he made the drive here from Sweetwater just to break my windows.”

  I nodded. Me either.

  “And he wouldn’t slash your tires.”

  No, he wouldn’t. “Shelby’s minivan is white. Bradley drives a dark SUV, though.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. “You think Bradley mighta done it?”

  “I can’t imagine why he would,” I said, “but I suppose it’s possible. He paid for my car, so if he saw it in the Shortstop parking lot, he’d know it belonged to me. And this house isn’t difficult to find. It’s available for sale, with my name on the sign. He might not—or whoever broke in and broke the windows—might not have realized it was your house. It might just be because I’m the agent.”

  Rafe nodded slowly. “We should go talk to Bradley tomorrow.”

  “That ought to be fun.” My current boyfriend interrogating my ex-husband in front of his pregnant wife.

  “You don’t have to come,” Rafe said. “But I thought you might enjoy it.”

  I might, at that.

  We went to bed shortly thereafter, in Rafe’s bed upstairs. The same bed where we’d started the day making love this morning. The same bed where we’d started our relationship six months ago, for that matter. Just like then, he did his best to wear me out—so I’d sleep well, or so he claimed—and then he wrapped an arm around my waist and snugged me close, and fell asleep with his nose buried in my hair.

  I’d been afraid I wouldn’t be able to sleep—it had been a pretty eventful day, after all—but between the heavy food, the warmth of the comforter and his body, and the fact that I was with him, and he always made me feel safe, I surprised myself by dropping off to sleep almost immediately.

  When I woke up it was still dark. The black beyond the window wasn’t lightened by sunrise, and when I turned my head to check the glowing red digital display on the clock, it told me it was just after one.

  I was about to turn around to face Rafe when his hand landed on my shoulder to hold me in place. He leaned in, his front warm against my back. “Shhhh.”

  “What?” I breathed.

  “Not sure.”

  We lay in silence for a few seconds. I strained my ears, trying to discern something, anything, that might have woken us both.

  Rafe is a light sleeper, always ready for trouble. I’m not, particularly, so I imagined it was probably him coming awake that had awakened me.

  There was a soft sound from downstairs. Something like a scurry, from tiny feet on the floor or the brush of clothing against a doorjamb.

  “Mouse?”

  He shook his head. No, we probably wouldn’t hear a mouse all the way up here.

  Please, God, let it not be a rat!

  Rafe rolled away and to his feet. I turned over, as quietly as I could, praying that the mattress wouldn’t squeak and the blankets wouldn’t rustle too loudly, to watch him. It was dark outside, but there was enough light from the streetlamps and the porch light to see his outline standing at the side of the bed.

  For a moment I wondered whether he’d cross the floor and head down the stairs naked. The sight of all those muscles on display would be enough to put the fear of God into any evildoer who might be lurking. Unless the evildoer was female, and then she’d probably faint dead away with excitement. Either way, problem solved.

  However, he tugged his jeans on and grabbed his gun before moving to the door, soundless on bare feet.

  I waited until he was gone down the hallway before I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and got to my feet. I didn’t want to get in his way, but I might as well get ready, just in case. In case he missed the rat when he fired at it, or something, and the rat ran up the stairs and into the bedroom. I didn’t want to be in bed then. The bed was a simple platform, much too close to the ground for comfort. No, if I saw a rat, I wanted to be able to jump on top of the bureau, the tallest piece of furniture in the room, and to do it without flashing anyone my private parts.

  So I fumbled my way into my own jeans and shirt and made my slow way toward the door, careful not to step on any of the creaking parts of the floor. Rafe had done his best in renovating the place, but the house was more than a hundred and twenty years old, and things do wear out over time.

  I’d made it out into the hallway and had the stairs in sight when the downstairs exploded into a pandemonium of sound and fury.

  Chapter Twenty One

  There were loud voices and grunts, curses and banging, but luckily no gunshots. Nonetheless, I put the idea of moving slowly and carefully out of my head and barreled down the stairs as quickly as I could. If I’d had any sense, I would have jumped on the banister and slid, but mother made it very clear early on that ladies do not slide on banisters, so that was something that didn’t occur to me until it was too late and I was standing in the foyer downstairs.

  The sounds were coming from the kitchen. I ran down the hallway and flipped on the light, since whatever was going on, was going on in the darkness of night.

  The scene looked like something out of a bad action movie. Rafe was standing, almost literally with his bare foot on some guy’s neck, pointing the gun at the back of the man’s head and snarling something about making his day.

  The prone fellow, meanwhile, wasn’t so much as twitching a muscle. He might as well have been dead, for all the animation he showed. I could barely discern the movement of his back when he inhaled and exhaled. It was quite an achievement, since I assumed he was probably winded from going one on one with Rafe, even for just a minute.

  He looked shortish and slim, with skinny arms and legs. He was dressed in black, jeans and a hoodie, and he had black hair, shaggy and in need of a cut. His hands and what I could see of his neck under Rafe’s foot were white.

  Rafe turned to me, a vision of smooth skin, hard muscles, and low-slung jeans, not to mention the gun and the set of his mouth. My very own romance f
antasy come to life. It was all I could do not to swoon.

  “You know this creep?” he wanted to know, his voice gravelly and dangerous. The man under his foot twitched nervously.

  “It’s a bit hard to see with him being on his stomach on the floor,” I said apologetically. “Any chance I could get a better look at him?”

  Rafe hesitated before taking his foot of the guy’s neck. “Don’t try anything.”

  The young man scrabbled around and out of reach, but he didn’t try anything. Instead, he put his back up against the bank of cabinets on the other side of the kitchen and stared at us both, sullenly.

  Rafe folded his arms across his chest, and I could see the kid’s throat move as he swallowed.

  He wasn’t very old. Straight out of college, from the looks of it. Not that I’m particularly old myself—twenty-eight in another month or so, while Rafe is pushing thirty-one—but the intruder was about five years younger than me, at a guess. Pale skin, floppy black hair, toddler-like pout.

  “No,” I told Rafe. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  He nodded. “Go call Tammy.”

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning!”

  “She sleeps with one eye open,” Rafe said.

  I squinted at him. “How do you know that?”

  He rolled his own. “Not ‘cause I’ve ever spent the night with her. Just call.”

  Fine. I wandered over to the old-fashioned phone hanging on the wall beside the door, and dialed. He must have been right, because the phone only rang once on the other end before it was answered. “Grimaldi.”

  “It’s Savannah,” I said.

  She immediately sounded more alert. “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone tried to break in.”

  Rafe snorted, which I took to mean that ‘someone’ hadn’t just tried, he’d succeeded. By the time Rafe intercepted him, he’d been inside the house. In spite of our brand new locks and in spite of Walker and his handy-dandy MLS key being behind bars.

  “Who?” Grimaldi asked.

  “I have no idea.” I glanced at him. “I’ve never seen him before.”